


The Sum of His Parts

by Prodigal_sonshine



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, C-PTSD, Dissociation, Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm Bright has DID, Malcolm Bright has Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-22 23:34:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30046512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prodigal_sonshine/pseuds/Prodigal_sonshine
Summary: Malcolm's trauma reactions in the cellar feel different this time.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. Malcolm

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading
> 
> I know I kind of left Fugue State in the dirt but I didn't set that up for myself really well and ran out of places to go. Maybe I'll get back to it, maybe I won't.
> 
> This one is a little bit canon divergent at the beginning in terms of how things happened in the basement but I promise you it will get a LOT more canon divergent as I continue.
> 
> Anyway, rather than string you along I'll just tell you that this fic is about Malcolm having DID. So now I know that, and you know that, but Malcolm certainly Does Not Know That. I know his Big Trauma (tm) was past the time frame when systems usually form but listen--I have DID and I'm starved for representation lemme have this. /lighthearted
> 
> That being said, trigger warning for descriptions of dissociation, depersonalization, and derealization ahead.

_“Your father brought you up here to kill you.”_

The sentence was a punch in the gut, a rubbing of salt in psychological wounds. Malcolm couldn’t help but stare at John disbelievingly, mouth slightly ajar. “No, no, no…he wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t…” Panic besieged him then, smothering him in unsaid words and broken promises. He gasped for air and stumbled back, only dimly aware of John’s laughter as he stood up, towering over Malcolm.

“Oh, but he would, little Malcolm. He was going to, too. You knew too much; the chloroform had lost its effect. If it makes you feel any better, he didn’t _want_ to. He wasn’t necessarily looking forward to it.” John pulled out a hunting knife, twisting it in his hands as he spoke.

The gleam of the blade caught Malcolm’s eye and he paled. “I’ve seen that before,” he gasped, terror still gripping his lungs.

John’s smile was void of emotion, then. It was cold, calculating, and—perhaps worst of all— _hungry_. “Have you, little Malcolm? Do you remember this little number?” John grabbed Malcolm by his hair and pulled him harshly to his feet. Malcolm failed to hold back a yelp of pain as he stood in front of John, suddenly feeling smaller than he had in over twenty years.

“No, your _father_ wasn’t looking forward to it,” John admired the shine of the blade for a few seconds before suddenly plunging it hilt-deep between Malcolm’s third and fourth ribs, “but _I_ certainly was.”

Malcolm’s mouth opened in a silent scream, looking up at John as he nearly doubled over on himself. John’s eyes glinted sadistically back at Malcolm as he twisted the blade once before removing it from Malcolm’s flesh. He nodded, satisfied with his handiwork as Malcolm crumpled to the ground, cuffed hands clutching the bleeding wound. John paid him no mind as he paced back and forth. “Do you know _why_ I was so eager for your father to end your short, pathetic life?” John snarled after a few moments, taking the bloodied tip of the knife and forcing Malcolm’s chin up, “It’s because, Malcolm, you, at the ripe age of ten years old, tried to kill me!”

For the second time that afternoon, Malcolm’s world was shattered. “W-what?” He stammered.

John pressed the tip of the knife more firmly into Malcolm’s chin, causing a small amount of fresh blood to paint the blade and eliciting a small whimper from Malcolm. “Oh, yes, little Malcolm,” John sneered, “see, you were a little bit smarter than your father or I gave you credit for! Martin and I had a little bit of a falling out, you see—” John took the knife away from Malcolm’s chin before standing up and continuing his pacing “—and you caught wind that something was wrong. Your father tasked me with making sure you didn’t leave that room while he took care of that _precious_ girl you seem to be so obsessed with. ‘Put Malcolm to bed,’ he told me, ‘make sure he doesn’t find anything.’ But you? Oh, you had other plans, little Malcolm. You grabbed a hold of this cheap little blade, and you stabbed me, before leaving me for _dead_.” John spat the last word, pulling up his shirt to show off a scar, placed almost exactly where he had stabbed Malcolm just a few moments ago.

“So now, it’s your turn,” John said cheerfully, “now you get to feel what it is to die slowly, knowing that no one is coming to save you. But maybe this is a good place to die. After all, there’s no place like home.” With that, John turned and walked out the door, leaving Malcolm alone with his thoughts.

* * *

It wasn’t long after John’s exit that Malcolm began to feel strange. He was certain that his lightheadedness was due to blood loss, but this was something different; this was a certain…unreality. The cellar around him began to take on a soft, dreamlike feeling, and he noticed that he was suddenly holding one of his affirmation cards. He read it to himself softly, before it disappeared from his hand in a soft mist. He struggled to move, and was dimly aware that if he continued to bleed as he was, he would die before he had the chance to find out what had happened to the girl in the box. The rumble of the subway caused the wound to smart, and with a newfound flash of panic Malcolm realized that he was not in the forest, he was in the city. He faintly remembered the last thing that John had said: _there’s no place like home._ He inhaled sharply with the realization that he had been right under his family home the whole time.

The dreamlike feeling got stronger, and he felt his shirt tear and the stab wound beginning to be messily wrapped up, but he felt disconnected from it; from everything, really. The pain, the movement, even the cellar he was trapped in all seemed to be far away. _Maybe this is a dream,_ he thought hopefully, _and I’ll wake up in the morning in my bed._ Malcolm leaned into the feeling, and watched himself reach for the hammer by John’s chair.

* * *

“WATKINS!!” his voice screamed, “THIS IS MY HOUSE!!” his one good hand gripped the handle of the trunk as he dragged it into the sitting room. The hammer hung loosely in the belt loop of his now-ragged pants. “WATKINS! I WILL FIND YOU!” his voice yelled again, setting down the trunk before moving to the closet behind him, readying himself for what was to come.

His eyes saw John’s shaking form as he approached the trunk, and his legs rushed him out of the closet. His good hand brought the handle of the hammer down on John’s back and shoved him into the trunk, locking it tight. Slowly, his body began to tremble, the adrenaline of his situation finally beginning to wear off, as his legs carried him to the living room and buckled themselves underneath his mother’s embrace. Everything seemed to happen in an instant, but also not at all. His ears heard his mother speaking to him, but his mouth would not move.

His eyes began to cry.


	2. Gil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have So Many Ideas lmao I'm going to update as often as I can. Spring break is coming up so I'll have a lot more time to write. As always, trigger warning for descriptions of dissociation. This chapter is from Gil's POV so it's his perceptions of Malcolm's dissociation.

Chapter 2: Gil

When Gil had heard the call to the Whitly house, he immediately got in his Le Mans and called his team, going far over the speed limit the entire time. He called Colette Swanson, too, ensuring that the FBI had also received the call. Within twenty minutes, everyone was positioned outside the massive town home. Swanson took the lead, bursting into the home with two of her agents. Gil, Dani, and JT were close behind, pausing in the doorway.

Gil nodded silently to his team before the three entered the Whitly home, guns drawn. “NYPD!” he called as he entered the entryway.

“In here!” a shrill voice came from the living room. A wave of relief came over Gil as he holstered his gun and entered, seeing the three Whitlys huddled together on the couch. Ainsley was bleeding from a head wound, but seemed otherwise unhurt. Jessica was unharmed, albeit shaken up, but Gil’s heart skipped a beat when he looked at Malcolm.

He was wrapped in his mother’s arms, head on her chest, and he was crying. Jessica was whispering comforts to him, but if he heard her, he gave no indication of it. He was holding his left hand close to his chest. He was deathly pale and had a thousand-yard stare that Gil hadn’t seen since the night the kid’s father was arrested.

Gil hurried forward, dropping to his knees in front of Malcolm. He looked to Jessica, who pressed a kiss into her son’s hair before saying, “He trapped Watkins, a chest in the sitting room, and then he just came in here and sort of collapsed. He won’t talk to me, Gil; he won’t even _look_ at me.”

“Okay, okay. Jess, why don’t you go check in with EMS,” Gil raised a hand at Jessica’s attempt at arguing, “even if you aren’t hurt, they’ll want to check you over, just to be sure. And besides, Ainsley needs some attention.”

“’M fine,” Ainsley mumbled softly, even as her eyelids fluttered.

“Don’t go taking after your brother now, kid, go with your mom.”

Jessica’s mouth was a thin line, reluctant to leave her son, but she nodded and maneuvered her way out from under Malcolm, before taking hold of Ainsley’s elbow and the two left the house, leaving Gil, JT, Dani, and Malcolm alone in the room.

Gil looked to his team, “Can we get the room? Go clear the rest of the house, ask Swanson what you can do.” Dani looked like she wanted to argue, but said nothing as she nodded and walked to the sitting room. JT followed close behind.

Gil returned his attention to Malcolm, who was still staring at a point just beyond him, at something only he could see, or perhaps at nothing at all; Gil didn’t know, but he put his hand on the back of the kid’s neck, hoping that the familiar gesture would bring him back. Gabrielle had told he and Jessica about this, about how when the mind is met with severe stress, sometimes it will just…leave. Check out for a bit, if you will.

Malcolm flinched at the contact, but his eyes travelled to Gil’s, a dullness to them that Gil hadn’t seen in ages, and certainly didn’t miss. The kid looked lost in his own home, in his own _head_ , and Gil squeezed softly, not saying anything for a moment.

After a few seconds, Gil asked softly, “Where are you hurt, kid?”

Malcolm didn’t answer, but something behind his eyes flared, a recognition of Gil’s voice, maybe, or an acknowledgement of his question.

“Okay, we’ll use the old one for yes, two for no tactic,” Gil said. Malcolm didn’t talk for months after his father’s arrest, and he and Jackie had to get used to yes and no questions pretty quickly. “I can see that your hand is pretty done in, but are you hurt anywhere else?” Gil kept his voice soft, careful to not startle the kid. Gabrielle had said that this checking out, _dissociation_ , he remembered, was usually frightening for the person experiencing it, and getting frustrated or raising his voice would only make Malcolm more afraid to come back to him.

Malcolm took a moment to answer, but slowly, he blinked once.

Gil nodded, a lump in his throat. “Okay, kid. Can you tell me where? Point, or look at it, something?”

Malcolm’s eyes flicked downward before returning his gaze to Gil’s. Gil looked down, and for the first time noticed that the kid’s shirt was torn and bloodied. He cursed silently, kicking himself for not noticing sooner, and pulled his radio off his belt. “Dani, get EMS in here,” he waited for confirmation before returning the radio to its holder and cupped Malcolm’s chin in his hand. “Kid, the paramedics are going to need to ask you questions. You gotta try and come back.”

Malcolm had a dazed look in his eyes for a moment, processing what Gil said. Then, his eyes filled with tears and he leaned forward, resting his head on Gil’s shoulder. Gil caught him (he always did), and held him as EMS entered the room, rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back.

Malcolm mumbled something into Gil’s jacket. Gil leaned his head down, “What was that, kid?”

“ _He tried to kill us_.”

* * *

Gil’s hands were tight on the steering wheel as he followed the ambulance. Ainsley and Jessica were riding with Adolpho; Malcolm’s injuries needed immediate attention. The kid’s last words to him before being placed on the stretcher bounced around in his head.

_He tried to kill us_.

Who? Watkins? That much was obvious, but surely Malcolm had already known that. He knew that John Watkins was an active serial killer. Why would information like that shock him? Though, Gil supposed, knowing it and experiencing it were two different things.

There was one other option, but Gil refused to acknowledge it. As monstrous as Dr. Martin Whitly was, he would never kill his own son. He loved him too much, or at least, loved him as much as a serial killer could.

Right?

Doubt circled Gil’s mind as he pulled into the parking lot of the Emergency Room. JT and Dani had gone back to the station to file paperwork and aid with interrogating Watkins. They’d practically shoved Gil into his car to follow Malcolm. Malcolm would need him, they said, he had to be there for his kid. And of course, Gil agreed, but he couldn’t help but feel terrified at the thought of hearing what Malcolm had gone through.

They needed a statement, he knew that, but the way the kid looked at him as EMS entered…desperate, broken, _small_. If Gil didn’t know any better, he would have said the way the kid looked at him looked like—well, the _kid_. Gil knew it didn’t make any sense, but there was something so young about Malcolm’s expression, in a way that Gil hadn’t seen in at least 15 years. It tugged at his heart, his desire to just hold the kid and make everything okay again far stronger than any obligation he had to his job.

Gil got out of the car and walked into the ER waiting room. He flashed his badge at the receptionist and told her Malcolm’s name, and after a moment of searching she told him that he was in surgery, she would let him know, and Gil resigned himself to a corner by the window, watching the parking lot and thinking the same thing over and over:

Would Martin Whitly kill his own son?

* * *

When Gil was allowed to see Malcolm, Jessica and Ainsley were already there. Malcolm was asleep, looking awfully frail under the covers. Jessica saw Gil enter and shifted. “Don’t get up,” Gil said quietly. He stood against the back wall, arms crossed, and searched Malcolm’s face. He looked calm, peaceful, such a far cry from just two hours ago.

Gil walked forward and placed his hand on Ainsley’s shoulder, “How are you feeling, kid?”

Ainsley looked up and smiled softly, “I’ll live,” she said. Gil pat her shoulder and moved to Jessica, offering her the same comfort.

“How’s our boy doing?”

Jessica looked to Gil, eyes wet, and placed her hand over his. “He needed surgery to set his wrist, and they stitched up where he was stabbed by…by him.”

Gil nodded curtly and squeezed Jess’s shoulder. “He’ll pull through.”

She nodded, “He always does, somehow.”

Gil smiled, “Why don’t you and Ainsley go home? It’s been a long day.”

Jessica shook her head, “I want to be here when he wakes up.”

Gil sighed softly but nodded, knowing there was nothing he could say to discourage her; he had asked her to leave her son once today, she wouldn’t do it again.

As if on cue, Malcolm groaned softly as he blinked awake. Gil smiled down at him softly as his blue eyes found his face. “Hey, kid.”

“ _Malcolm,”_ Jessica gripped her son’s good hand, unable to stop a few rogue tears from spilling down her cheeks.

The kid looked to his mother and surveyed the room, looking confused. He turned back to Gil and Jessica.

“Gil?” Malcolm asked, his voice a little scratchy, “Mother?”

Jessica cupped Malcolm’s cheek with one hand, “Yes, darling, I’m right here.”

Malcolm looked to Jessica, then to Gil again.

“Where…what happened?”


	3. Malcolm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of description and explanation about why I write the dissociation scenes the way I do. A note that this is JUST for my system, and every system is different.  
> Usually, when someone else fronts, I'm aware of it in the moment, unless I get pushed deep into the headspace. It's after I return to the front that the memories get hazy, like remembering the details of a dream or watching something happen through a foggy window. So you'll see me describe Malcolm as watching himself do things or seeing things, but then later act as if he doesn't remember, because he doesn't. I also did it this way so that there isn't a lot of blackouts and time jumps narratively because I personally don't like writing those.  
> That's all! Enjoy and thank you so much for your support it means a lot.

Malcolm looked at the worried faces of Gil and his mother, before asking again, “What happened?”

The events of the previous evening were distorted, as if looking through a frosted window. Not forgotten, exactly, but they felt unreal, as if he had dreamed it. Someone had been in trouble, he knew. They had gotten hurt.

_He_ had gotten hurt, Malcolm realized with a start, taking note of the tug in his right side and the weight of a cast on his left hand, how did that happen?

Jessica and Gil were still looking at him worriedly, and Malcolm looked back at them, “I got hurt,” he said. He knew it was obvious, that he sounded stupid, but he had to make sure he was here, that the fuzzy feeling in his head was just the morphine, and he wouldn’t have to watch himself talk to his mother or Gil again.

The worried looks didn’t go away, but Gil nodded slowly, “Yeah, kid, you got hurt. You were pretty out of it afterwards, what do you remember?”

_I was?_ Malcolm thought, mulling Gil’s words over in his head. What _did_ he remember? “Watkins left, and…he had told me something. He told me something, and then he stabbed me, and then he left.” Malcolm’s eyes found Ainsley’s, and the siblings checked each other over quickly before giving soft, supportive smiles.

Jessica squeezed Malcolm’s good hand, and he looked back to his mother and Gil, who was looking at him expectantly. Oh, right, he had been talking. “Watkins had told me something. I don’t…I can’t remember what he said.”

Gil raised an eyebrow at that, and Malcolm met his gaze steadily, “I can’t, honest. If I could, I would tell you.”

Gil didn’t look convinced, but he let the subject drop. Malcolm looked to his mother and smiled softly, “Hello, Mother.”

“Malcolm,” his mother said, misty-eyed, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m okay, Mother.”

At that moment, there was a soft knock at the door and a nurse poked her head in, “Visiting hours end in fifteen minutes, folks. Mr. Bright, it’s good to see you awake,” the nurse smiled at Malcolm, who ducked his head slightly and nodded.

Jessica looked as if she wanted to argue, but now that Malcolm was awake, she had no excuse to stay beyond visiting hours. Gil nodded to the nurse and said a muttered thank you. The nurse smiled and moved on to the next room. Malcolm’s mother sighed and stood, putting on her jacket. She kissed Malcolm on the forehead gently, “I’ll be back tomorrow, sweetheart.” Malcolm nodded.

Ainsley stood and followed Jessica, smirking at Malcolm as she left, “See you later, dork.” Malcolm chuckled softly and nodded. Gil sighed softly and sat down, looking at Malcolm with a worried expression. In fact, Malcolm wasn’t sure that Gil’s face had changed since he woke up. He looked like he had a question. “Bright,” he started, then paused. Malcolm raised his eyebrows.

Gil took another breath, “Bright, you said something when I was talking to you. Do you remember that?”

Malcolm tilted his head slightly, peering through the frosted glass to the time immediately after his encounter with Watkins. He closed his eyes, watching himself stare at nothing, then fall forward into Gil’s shoulder. He said something, Malcolm saw his mouth move, but the glass would not allow him to hear. He opened his eyes and shook his head, averting Gil’s gaze. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, kid; you were really out of it,” Gil sighed, “you fell into me and you said, ‘he tried to kill us.’ Does that…Bright?”

But Malcolm wasn’t listening anymore. The strange feeling of unreality returned full force, and a flicker in his periphery drew his attention to a point just behind Gil.

Standing behind Gil’s left shoulder was… _Malcolm_. But a different Malcolm. The person he saw before him was young, maybe eleven, and he had deep brown eyes that stared at him with terror underneath a mop of dirty blonde hair. He was holding a sketchbook of some kind, clutching it close as if it were a life raft in the midst of the ocean. Someone was talking, talking to him. Who was talking to him? Suddenly Malcolm watched his head whip towards Gil, and heard his voice hiss, “Why would you _say_ that?”

The man looked back at Malcolm’s face, stunned and hurt. “Kid, I was just…I’m worried, I wanted to—”

“Get out.” Malcolm heard himself growl.

“Kid—”

Malcolm watched himself lean forward, saw his eyes gleam with malice, “I said, _leave_. Just leave me be.”

The older man paled and set his jaw. Malcolm wanted to reach out to him, to apologize for what his voice was saying. This man was important to him, Malcolm knew that, but he felt so far away, he couldn’t remember the man’s name.

The man stood swiftly and left, leaving Malcolm alone, watching his body glare out the window while a small boy no one else could see stood next to his bed. After a few moments, the feeling of disconnect began to fade, and soon Malcolm was himself again, no longer a spectator to the actions of his own body. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that he heard a gruff voice in the corner of the room say, “C’mon kid, you’re alright,” as Malcolm reconnected. He knew, logically, what this disconnected feeling was, had studied it at Harvard, and he had experienced spells of it after especially bad night terrors or flashbacks, but never like this. Never before had he watched himself say things that he didn’t mean.

A nurse came into the room and took note of Malcolm’s heart rate and oxygen levels. She frowned slightly and looked to Malcolm, “Are you alright, Mr. Bright? Are you in pain?”

Malcolm looked up at her and noticed that he was leaning forward. _When had that happened?_ He shook his head slightly and leaned back against the pillow, looking around the room.

“Where did Gil go?”

* * *

After a few days longer in the hospital, Malcolm was released. Of course, he had tried to sign out AMA the day after he woke up, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. Malcolm knew he still could if he wanted to, but decided that he’d given his mother enough reasons to worry about him for a lifetime.

Gil didn’t visit for the remainder of Malcolm’s hospital stay, and for the life of him, Malcolm couldn’t figure out why. He had a question for Malcolm, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he come back to ask it? He voiced his concerns to Jessica the day before his release, but she was quick to reassure him.

“He’s just busy with work, dear. Between you and me, they’re _much_ less efficient without you there,” she had said, and Malcolm had laughed, but there was something nagging at him that told him otherwise.

As soon as Malcolm returned to his loft, he shuffled through his closet until he found a small box, which he promptly opened and pulled out a new cell phone, identical to his last. Malcolm had learned early on in his time at the FBI that it was good to have a backup. He didn’t have the original to transfer all of his contacts and data over, but that was okay; he knew Gil’s phone number by heart.

“ _This is Arroyo,_ ” Gil picked up on the third ring.

“Gil, it’s me.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, before Gil said, “You out of the hospital already?”

“Yeah, they discharged me this morning,” Malcolm replied, addressing the unasked question of _did the doctors tell you it was okay to leave_ , “but that’s not why I’m calling. Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, kid. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because…” Malcolm sighed, knowing he was about to sound childish, “you didn’t visit me. Mother said you were busy with work but I was worried that maybe I had done something or maybe you got hurt or sick or something like that.”

“Bright,” Gil sounded confused, “you told me to leave.”

Malcolm shook his head, incredulous, “What? No, I didn’t; why would I do that?”

“Kid, you’re starting to scare me.”

Malcolm paused for a moment, wracking his brain to remember when he could have told Gil to leave. Gil was in his room; he had a question. What was the question? Why did he leave? _When_ did he leave? Malcolm felt as if he was trying to solve a puzzle that no one had the solution to.

“ _Malcolm!_ ”

Malcolm jumped and returned his attention to Gil, “Yeah? Sorry, I was thinking.”

“Kid, I said your name at least ten times.” Gil sounded really worried now, and Malcolm could hear the jingling of keys through the phone.

“Yeah, um, sorry, I was just—I was thinking,” Malcolm said, sitting on his bed. He put a hand to his temple. “Gil, do you think it would be okay if you—”

“I’m already in the car, kid.”


End file.
